Drowning In Those Words
by Kita Kitsune
Summary: You keep saying it, over and over, so easily. Doesn't it lose its meaning if you say it too much? We go 'round and 'round. Love and hate. Are you all right? You can't leave yet, I don't know you well enough! : Twoshot AU, FrUK : Language & BL
1. Stop Saying It

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: You keep saying it, over and over, so easily. Doesn't it lose its meaning if you say it too much? We go 'round and 'round. Love and hate. Are you all right? You can't leave yet, I don't know you well enough!_

Title: Drowning In Those Words

Chapter One: Stop Saying It

Word Count: 4,132

Page Count: 5

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: England/France

Warning: Slight angst (pretty tame, though, I think), Language, BL, mention of attempted suicide

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Friday, August 6, 2010

Miscellaneous notes: I'm sorry if there are lots of errors or typos. I wrote this in about three hours, sometime between 2:00 AM and 5:00 AM. x/x I'll check for mistakes when I'm more coherent, but I'll post this up, now, so you guys can read it~ Sorry for the 1st-person POV, I don't usually write like that anymore, but it's just the way it flowed. Oo;;

: : : : : : :

You know that feeling when you feel sick to your stomach? Where it feels like your entire world has gone inverse, and you can't put enough blame on yourself to satisfy your guilt? You know, when you've been making all these assumptions, and guessing that those are the real reasons and nothing bad could happen because it's just _not possible _and—

It was only four days. Four days since I'd talked to him, and about ten since he'd said he'd loved me. In the heat of the moment, overcome, I allowed myself to believe him and clung to him and hid my face in his shoulder as he held me. Every time I asked him to repeat it, he would. Over and over and over. It was at least four times. And every time I still couldn't believe it. It was like I'd heard him wrong, so I had to hear it again. And again. And again and again and again. Because even though I've had my share of heartbreak, even though I never wanted this to happen, even though I'd been fighting for the past month from letting myself fall that weak, again— It seems I didn't have a choice.

And when he left for four days I tore myself apart, inside. I'd never really given him my mobile number—he kept asking for it, and by now it was a game, of sorts. In the depths of my heart perhaps I did want to give him my number, if only so I could know what was going on, in case of an emergency… But I waited too long. I waited too long, and the emergency came and went after four painstaking days of silence.

Now I am not of the dependent sort, and I can handle living my own life. But when the person who says they've loved you, every day since they confessed—and you can only respond with harsh words, your tongue thick in your mouth and preventing you from saying what you half-regret in the heat of an emotional moment—when they suddenly cut off all contact and you don't know their address so you can't check on them… When that suddenly happens—well. I'm not sure about you, but it almost killed me.

Did he grow bored of me that fast? Was it so easy for him to lie, that when I became too much, it was easier just to pretend as though we'd never been in contact, at all? Were the past ten days only a vague dream, an illusion of fantasy and hope for my delirious mind that hungered for love in any shape or form it could take? Was it a sign as he gradually stopped kissing me on the cheek, even though he continued to do it in the company of his other friends, that he was losing interest? Had it finally run its course? Because, let me tell you, a relationship that lasts less than a fortnight is no relationship at all. It's a mockery. A mockery, that you would open yourself up and be so vulnerable that— Well, no more of that.

I suppose my first mistake was letting him see I cared about Alfred. Alfred, the stupid, infuriating, endearing boy who came crying to me after one of his friends tried to commit suicide. Unfortunately for me Francis was there, but he remained silent so I had to step up and offer my services. I did an admirable job of lending a kind ear and a few comforting words, I think—after the initial freaking-out Alfred actually cracked a smile. I forget what I said, but I prodded the corner of that tiny smile and remarked about how much better a sight it was, and the daft lad grinned at me, just like he always did. Naturally, I was flustered at that reaction and, of course, Francis took that moment to mock me on how well I gave advice. I told him to shut it, stupid frog. He hadn't uttered a word although he'd been sitting there the entire time! Lazy Frenchman!

At the end of the fourth day everything had been simmering inside for far too long. I reiterate, I can hold my own as well—likely better—as the next man. Stiff upper lip, keep everything inside and continue on as though it hadn't affected you. I hadn't obsessed over his absence. I hadn't tried to contact him with numerous messages as to inquire where he was. I hadn't indulged in anything that would make me seem dependent or weak. But by the fourth day I sought out Alfred. I was in a horrible mood. There were so many emotions swirling inside—I'd thought Francis had gotten tired of me, and half of me wanted to kiss Alfred where so many people could see it, just so Francis would hear of it and get jealous. This was a petty urge, I know, but it was so strong I almost gave into it. The boy was sweet, and he kept asking what was wrong, but I just wanted to punch something. He kept saying if there was anything I wanted to talk about or rant about that he'd listen, but Alfred didn't understand. There was_ nothing_ I wanted to say. What went on in my own head was very private, and I certainly couldn't tell him I'd been contemplating 'cheating' on Francis just to make him jealous. It wouldn't really be cheating, would it, if I did it with the intent of hurting that stupid Frenchy instead of out of lust? To make him hurt as badly as he'd made me hurt. I went over what I would say to him when he came back—I'd preempt his spiel about how we should 'see other people' by breaking up with him, first, and that would be that. If the tosser couldn't bother to give me a heads-up when he'd be gone for a few days, why should I need him, then? He'd obviously not proved himself—he wasn't 'up to snuff'. So I made the decision, half-aware in the back of my mind that I'd likely act differently when I at last actually saw him.

I made the mistake of finding out he'd contacted Gilbert—I don't recall what it was, but the German had been laughing stupidly about hearing from Francis recently (by which I mean on the third day of silence) and it just sent my blood boiling. So Gilbert, 'only a friend', was more important and more 'in the know' than I, someone who was apparently Francis' 'boyfriend'? We hadn't even gotten around to using those terms—but that's what we were supposed to be, right? Even if we'd been 'dating' for less than two weeks and hadn't gone beyond a bit of kissing?

I'll never forget that first kiss. He was nervous, and I was nervous, but for some reason we quickly settled into an odd rhythm and then he seemed to gain some confidence after the first few tentative touches where I had to urge him along, a bit. It left me breathless and panting (and more than a little aroused, but there wasn't anything out of the ordinary with _that_), I won't deny. It had my head spinning, how much a brief little French kiss could wind me up. We hadn't really had a kiss like that since, although in the company of ourselves, sometimes, we'd slip into some nervous hand-holding or chaste kissing. Francis seemed almost too careful, around me. Like he was holding himself back, and it was annoying. What, did he think I couldn't handle anything he threw at me? Preposterous.

And so this was the state of affairs at the end of the fourth day. While I had issues demonstrating any sort of physical attachment to someone, he seemed to have no such qualms, and yet did nothing. It was giving me the oddest sense that he didn't think I was adequate. And, curse me, I'd actually started to believe him—oh, hell, who am I kidding, I believed him from the start even if I didn't want to—because when I would get tired of his dilly-dallying and take an initiative of my own and kiss him he'd snag my shirt and pull me back in with a smirk. It sent me to flustered, the brief impulse gone cold after I'd drawn back from the short kiss, and I could only stare at him, wide-eyed and flushed at my own boldness as well as the sultry look on his face as he dragged me back in for another.

Perhaps I didn't fight it so much as I should—but the fact I'd said it back to him, so easily, at the beginning, bothered me. It felt as though I gave up too soon. As though there was nothing more for him to chase after. I wouldn't wish to be boring, after all! If I was to keep his interest, we had to keep the dance we had going, but I still had to reassure him I felt the same without actually 'saying' it. It made me feel cheap and vile, but I couldn't for the life of me bring up the nerve to say it again—my own troubles seemed only augmented by the fact he could say it to me, so easily. So—not necessarily confused or unaware, but more frustrated about my own inadequacies—I cursed and yelled and hit at him, which he would only laugh off. I kept wondering why, if he was so affectionate with those girls he caught for one-night-stands, he couldn't be so with me. I'd gone into this thinking I'd have contact forced on me—only grudgingly admitting to myself that I'd prefer it that way, I'd prefer someone else making the first moves because then and only then I could be absolutely sure of where they stood.

So many people only react when someone does something. They react, they don't think, they just like the feel of it and think of the repercussions afterward. I, however, am different. I know exactly what I want to do, and would have no problem doing it if I didn't think it might alter how someone else would act. If I were to grab him, throw him on the bed and straddle his waist, what message would that send? If I were to lean in and start a kiss, of course he would kiss back. But if I were to _not_ do that, would he have ever considered kissing me first? If I had not kissed him, would he have kissed me anyway, or no? It is these thoughts that keep me carefully contained. Certainly, then, I am not only reacting when he kisses me, because I have already thought of all this. I can do well with either—in certain moods I prefer to kiss, and in certain moods I prefer to have the other person's interest demonstrated to me instead of always doing it myself. You would not believe how many people are so self-centered and lazy that they leave the work up to someone else, entirely. Prats, the lot of them. It's so hard to find the right balance, and I kept thinking that perhaps, if only we kept working on it, we would find ours. Unlike others, we were honest. He knew where I stood, he knew what I would and wouldn't lie about—and he was growing to learn when I wasn't really lying, just flooded with too much emotion and too stressed over it all. Francis would pick up on the stress, and he would ask and ask what was wrong, but eventually I just exploded at him that I couldn't tell him what was wrong if I didn't know, myself. He went silent, after that. I don't think he'd ever realized, before, that my defensiveness could just be because I didn't want him to know I didn't know. That I didn't have all the answers for my own behavior. It is a very powerless feeling, when your insides are boiling and churning, unsettled and aching, when you can't pinpoint what is causing all of it, and someone keeps asking you because they are concerned with what is making you act so strange… Where was I?

Ah, yes. The end of the four days of silence.

It had occurred to me, of course, that something terrible might have happened. I'd swiftly pushed that thought out of my mind, though, because something terrible would never happen to _him._ It simply wasn't possible, this early on. Our relationship—if it could indeed be called that—was too young and green to be tainted by sorrow.

But it was. And it did.

I made the mistake of sending him an e-mail on the third day, after I heard of his contacting Gilbert. It was quite succinct, involving only the letters 'f-u-c-k-y-o-u'. I am actually quite proud of myself that I did not go on an angry tirade. Before you ask, no, I did not see Francis on the fourth day. No, the only contact after four days of silence was in the form of a paragraph-long, rambling e-mail that iterated how he was annoyed at me, and that he had been in the hospital for the past four days and couldn't get around to contacting me. He seemed both irritated at my response, apologetic for not contacting me (although he stressed that it'd been quite impossible) and sensitive to the possibility that I'd been over-reacting in my own mind ever since that last night we'd been in contact. The idiot even asked me to forgive him in the final line of the message, and hoped I would come to visit him the next day.

Let me tell you, my stomach just about dropped out when I heard he'd been in the hospital. All along, I knew if I was given a probable reason for his disappearance, I would instantly forgive him even if I didn't communicate that little fact. The guilt then proceeded to settle in, that I'd thought to think so badly of him and even contemplated making him jealous to pay him back for his supposed 'negligence', when all along he hadn't had a choice. That he'd given me the name of a nearby hospital gave a sense of reality to this that I didn't like, as well. Abruptly, all the anger and hurt that had been festering for the past four days evaporated, replaced with dizzy speed by guilt and shame. I knew I'd been over-reacting, even if no one could tell. I knew this, and yet I could do nothing to stop it. I am suspicious of people, I have good reason to be. But Francis…

I would have to visit him. There was no way around it. I couldn't not do it, even if every nerve in my body screamed and strained at me to avoid him until he was better, like the plague. Part of the reason I couldn't ignore this was because it was unhealthy to not face my fears, and part of it was because… I just wanted to see that he was all right.

: : :

I brought a small bouquet with me. Lilies, he liked those, and yellow daisies with baby's breath and a pink rose or two. I felt it was too early in our relationship for red roses, and a part of me fluttered in relief that he'd never been thinking to leave me, during the four days of silence. He hadn't been plotting out the best way to break it to me, so I wouldn't have to break up with him first. A small part of me breathed in relief, but I was still deathly nervous to see him. The guilt and shame hadn't receded, and I knew he was sick—he was still in the hospital, after all!—so I couldn't act the way I normally did, around him. It made me shuffle my feet and look at my shoes as I stood outside the door to his room. Eventually I managed a shuddering breath and pushed the door open, stepping inside. It was just a semi-private room, but the other occupant was asleep so I didn't feel too embarrassed as I shuffled past him and peered around the curtain, the bouquet hidden behind my back. Immediately I realized he was awake, and his blue eyes snapped to me from the window, a childish, gleeful smile breaking out over his face as he raised his arms as though inviting me into them. I couldn't help but notice the pulse monitor clipped to one of his fingers.

"_Petit lapin_, you came~!" I felt my face heat as I purposefully strode over to the chair beside the bed, refusing to look at him and walking stiffly. Apparently I was too close, though, because he grabbed my elbow and hoisted me into bed with him, making an undignified squawk escape me without my permission. I had to glare up at his smiling face for that one, and practically shoved the bouquet up his nose to free myself.

"L-Let me go, moron!" He just laughed and I tried to pretend that I hadn't missed the sound, clambering out of the bed and his embrace and straightening my clothes as I grumbled to myself. There was a bit of an awkward silence—in my opinion, at least—as he inspected the bouquet, I suppose. I wasn't really looking up at him, more at a tile on the floor a little ways off. My mind wandered, reflecting on the silly nickname he'd given me—really, I was nothing like a rabbit, it was ridiculous. But French was his language, after all, and—

"Arthur?" I started a little, blinking up at him before returning my gaze to the hands in my lap, which were currently clasping each other, tightly. I didn't deserve that edge of concern on his face. From my peripheral vision I noticed him reaching out with the bouquet—he couldn't get up, and the petals of the flowers came dangerously close to brushing my cheek as I pulled away to the side, to avoid them. I heard the frown in his voice when he spoke, again. "Arthur? What is wrong?"

I couldn't tell him, of course. I couldn't tell him the reason I was so quiet was because I didn't know what to say, didn't know what would be appropriate, and that I was beating myself up for having assumed the worst of him. And right now, he was sitting in a hospital bed, making me feel like a horrible person for even thinking that he'd be so under-handed as to not tell me straight if he was tired of me. But what else could I have thought? What else was I supposed to think? I could debate with the best of them, but right here, right now, in this situation I couldn't think of anything to say. It was my own fault I was upset, but that didn't stop me from thinking I wished he could fix it. Who knows, he probably could. Francis had always been good at saying just the right thing at the right time—well, when he felt like it. The rest of the time he'd just purposefully say something to piss me off. Not that I would've minded that, at the moment, either, but…

"It's nothing." I clasped my hands together and forced a smile, looking up at him. His frown grew deeper, and he motioned to the bed, scooting back a little.

"Arthur. Come here, _mon cher_." I hesitated, naturally, then shook my head a little, that smile growing a bit as though to try and reassure him, even though I didn't really feel like smiling.

"Oh. No, I'm fine." This wasn't like me, I realized. Usually I'd be yelling at him by now, about how he'd made me worry, about how he should take better care of himself, red in the face and fighting tears at the fact it felt like I'd almost lost him—like we'd had _such_ a close call. If I was this worried about losing him, after not even a fortnight, what chance did I have? I was already in deep, but then I'd already known that. From the beginning, a little over a month ago when we'd met, he'd made me take notice of him, and we'd ended up in more than a few scuffles and verbal spats. I hadn't realized how satisfying it was to have someone argue with me, so candidly. It was even better when I realized he argued for the same reason I did—it made things more interesting. I'd never really run into someone like that, before. Everyone always got so defensive and riled up, and as soon as I felt they were taking it too personally I would immediately step back and try to diffuse the situation I'd inadvertently caused. It was too late by then, most times, though—often I'd offended them so badly with my argumentativeness that they wanted nothing more to do with me, or only decided to ignore me when that came about.

But I should still be angry, shouldn't I? I should at least feign anger, then we could go back to arguing back and forth as we usually did, but… I didn't want to over-stress him. He was in the hospital, for goodness' sake! I smiled that watery smile at him, again, but had to lift one of my clasped hands to rub at the moisture collecting at the corner of my eyes. I heard a sigh, and the sound of sheets being slid against. I looked up when a hand clasped mine. His eyes were kind, if a tad uncertain.

"I am fine. You needn't worry."

"W-Who said I was worried? It's the air conditioning, in here! It's too dry!" I sputtered that as an excuse, quickly looking off and trying to grab my hand back. He kept a firm hold on it, leaning precariously off of the bed—the pulse-ticker still connected to his clipped hand—and over the rail, lifting my fingers to his lips with a small smile that gradually slipped into an all-too-irritating leer.

"Perhaps you should get in bed with me_, oui_~? Can't have you being cold~" To that I just _know_ my cheeks went pink and I snarled at him, snapping my hand back and standing hastily.

"Y-You! Idiot! You're ill! I won't be caught doing that sort of—" He grabbed my hand again and jerked me forward, cutting me off with light laughter.

"Ah, _cher_, I was thinking no such thing~!" By now I was sprawled over him, again, pressed against his chest by a lazily firm arm as he smirked down at me once more, leaning in. "_You're_ the one with the naughty mind, after all." His eyes twinkled. "Have you ever done it in a hospital bed, I wonder~?" I sputtered, shoving at him despite the fact I felt a little relieved at feeling him, solid and _there_, beneath me.

"I-I'm not the pervert! You are!" He sighed, dramatically, leaning back into his pillows and pulling me along with him, still pressed against his chest.

"Oh, I suppose you are right." Francis grinned down at me, then, and leaned to kiss my nose. Curse it, I know I flushed again. "Not that I regret it~" I just shook my head, shifting around with a grumble and trying to find a spot on the bed that was comfortable.

"Moron…" He just laughed again, whispering those too-familiar words to me once more, and I tried to ignore that ever-present pessimist in me that whispered that we wouldn't win against time. I really, truly tried to ignore it. Because no matter how much I might curse him in my own mind, how much guilt I might feel, how many insecurities I tried to hide—it was at least a comfort to think he wouldn't run away because of my bad behavior. A comfort to think he might stick around until all the bluster had died down, and be there to catch me when I needed it.

(Sometimes I honestly hated being such a romantic, at heart.)

I suppose that's all I could really hope for, at this point. If we were still together in three months I might start to take his proclamations of 'forever'—or at least long-term—more seriously.

(Disregarding the fact I was seemingly _already _cursed to believe every—or at least most every—goddamn sappy word he spouted out at me!)

: : :

_My first time writing FrUK~ Was it all right? x/x (Gah, I know it probably sucked, I'm sorry…)_

_I know it was a bit random and spacey, but… Erm. Review, please? ;~; -Fox_


	2. Please Say It

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himaruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Summary: You keep saying it, over and over, so easily. Doesn't it lose its meaning if you say it too much? We go 'round and 'round. Love and hate. Are you all right? You can't leave yet, I don't know you well enough!_

Title: Drowning In Those Words

Chapter Two: Please Say It

Word Count: 5,098

Page Count: 7

[Total Word Count: 9230]

[Total Page Count: 12]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: England/France

Warning: Language, BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Thursday, July 14, 2011

Miscellaneous notes: Another bit of randomness, to round off this universe. It's sort of similar to the previous post (although perhaps a smidge sadder in the beginning), but it's definitely in the same universe, so I figured I'd just add it here instead of as a new fic~

[ Apparently, Bastille Day this year happens to be 'The Day For Happy FrUK-Fanfic Coincidences' (for me, anyway). :D That is great in so many ways. The obvious one you'll all get, I'm sure (Happy Birthday, France~!), but the quieter ones only a few people will get. :3

Also, I feel so much better after writing this, you can't even imagine. /Haha, been up for 22 hours, wut… ]

Enjoy, I hope, even if it's a bit odd (all typos will be axed, eventually)~!

: : : : : : :

Ten days to go.

Let me take a breath and I'll fill you in, shall I?

…Well. Yes. In ten days it would be official. Officially, it would be a year. Not just any year, but _a _ year. The past few months have not been easy. They have not been full of romanticism and pleasant dreams and screamed devotions from the highest mountaintop, no. They have been full of insecurity and anger, frustration and loneliness, and the occasional perfect word or moment.

I did break up with him once, you know. Around January, a few months after he was forced to relocate. It wasn't that hard, at first. We'd send letters, or e-mails. At times, call. We would still communicate, but even so, by New Year's I nearly couldn't stand it. We were able to talk, then, and I was so full of vulnerable anger that I picked a fight, and we fought right up until the ball in New York rang in the New Year. He was three hours behind me, by then, and paused when I whispered him a Happy New Year amidst the ruckus playing on the TV. And he went quiet, before saying he'd blow me a kiss over the phone. But it didn't matter, really.

How can I cover a year of happenings in a few pages? The letters kept coming, although sometimes I wouldn't respond to them for a while. My existence had gotten lonelier, barer, without him around, even if I didn't want to admit it. Even if I wanted with all my mind to be independent of him, even my… Even my attempt to break it off was treated like nothing. It was as though it never happened. Half of this past year I felt like I'd been living alone, while the other half was filled with so many memories and light it almost eclipsed the sadness. For it _was_ sadness.

Not that I noticed it, at first. His relocation was unavoidable, really—his job transferred him to different places quickly, after that first half-year, and he wasn't often in the same place for more than a few weeks. It was hard on me. …Harder than I should have allowed it to be. Because really, even though he'd been sending me all these letters all through the months—in a timely fashion, given that I at times hesitated—I still felt alone. It wasn't enough. To be so close, so often, and to have it ripped away as though I didn't even matter… I would send him e-mails, and receive nothing. I would wonder if he had relocated again, without my knowing his new address and so perhaps my last letter hadn't reached him? I wondered if I was merely talking to a brick wall, and too often allowed myself a desperate laugh while situated in front of my computer as I typed yet another e-mail to add to the pile sitting in his inbox. No, I did not send him e-mails so often, but apparently he did not check this particular account so much as his business one, now. And so it was as though I was sending my angry, then quiet, then subdued messages into a spiraling void that simply sucked all of their emotions in without giving anything back.

I had to go on, of course. I couldn't allow this to affect me. I buried all of that bitterness and solitude deep within, where no one would find it. But it came about in other ways. I was sharper to friends. I was angrier about smaller and smaller things. I couldn't seem to put my life in perspective, there was always something blocking my way no matter which path I turned. Surely it couldn't be him. It didn't even cross my mind. It was me, wasn't it? There was something wrong with _me_. And I had been burying it for so long that I simply couldn't take it, anymore. My body couldn't take it. It started to feel like my air was being choked off just as it passed my lips. As though a meddling elephant of oppression followed me everywhere, hiding the sun and shoving me into places I didn't want to go. Shoving my mind into places it didn't want to see. But what else could I do? I went on living—existing. Because as I look back, half of this year feels like a dead weight. A blank span of endless daily routines piled upon each other to end a week, and then a month, and then another and on and on.

It couldn't be natural. It wasn't enjoyable. But still I managed to keep up a moderate mask, that no one knew. And perhaps it hurt more that no one knew. No one took a close enough look to know, and I was firmly oblivious to all of it. I forced myself to be, so I could go on. And yet, even with that I was so ridiculously happy to receive a letter every month or so in response to one of my own that I would simply stare at the envelope, at first. There would be both anticipaton and trepidation thrumming in my soul as I devoured the familiar curvy script—he always wrote my name with such a flourish, I think I accidentally smiled each time. Not to mention the on-going verbal spat we kept up on the very bottom of the back of the envelopes. I had to wonder if the postal workers read those, written out in the open as they were. Did they confuse them, or make them smile? I couldn't know, but I had to wonder.

As the time lengthened, his e-mails grew yet more infrequent, until I stopped trying to communicate with him by that means, at all. He still didn't have my mobile number, said something about his current phone being 'business-only'. I had to wonder if I was being purposefully excluded from his life. Because although we'd always seemed to have each other, there was this emptiness in my being that hadn't been there, before. It felt like he was always away, and I could never catch up. I was forced to wait, twiddling my thumbs for the next letter and hope that he wouldn't move again before he could receive my response.

I don't think there is enough waiting in today's society. Everything is instant—gratification, Internet, installment plans, downloads, mobile phones and voicemail. _Everything. _But this system forced me to slow down, and I had to wonder if I was experiencing something like an older generation. A generation who had lived in the time of letters and when phone calls were timed and rare enough that people would sit around the phone for hours waiting for a call from a loved one in service far away in a different timezone. People today might wonder how people back then ever survived without instant reassurance of the sort we have, now.

But it builds character, this waiting. It is not fun and it is not preferable, but given no other route it is something grasped at with both hands. Just a few words on paper. I would often hold the letter in one hand, gently running my fingers over the messages carved between the lines. I would imagine that he had touched this paper, too. He had written on it, running his fingers over it himself to smooth it out, unconsciously shifting the paper with a few fingertips the further he got down the page. I liked to think I could feel him on it. Could pretend we were phantoms, touching through a piece of paper that had traveled miles further than either of us could afford to, so quickly. And I always imagined my letters to him might have the same effect, but really what could I know? We didn't think the same, that was too clear, by now. But perhaps… Just perhaps, he treasured them like I did.

Every letter since the first one almost a year ago was safely tucked away with its fellows. I didn't unfold and refold them too often after the first two reads. I didn't want to obsess over them too much, re-read and think about them so much that I could think of nothing else. Because those letters were the only indication of what we'd had. A small oasis in a withered world that someone, somewhere, _cared_ enough not to stop caring just because of distance.

He was part of my nightly ritual. His name would be uttered quietly in my mind after sending bolstering thoughts to those affected by natural disasters and after I acknowledged my concern for my parents. Following his name I would then send a quick thought out to anyone I had ever known or will know, that they be fortunate. Some might call me overachieving in this, but I couldn't care less. Whether my small act to think of even people I had never known actually had any effect, will never be known by you or I. But isn't it a nicer thought to think, even for just a moment, that a moment of your own time might just possibly make the world a little bit more bearable for someone else? For how many times have people done something that, to them, is nothing, but yet that one small action has an effect on someone else? I'd like to think more people think as I do. I'd like to think that everyone, just before they drop off to sleep, takes a moment to think of everyone around them, all of us inhabiting this earth together. I'd like to think at least some people think as I do, and that these thoughts at least make something kinder float around this planet we call home, and that that 'something kinder' might make a perfectly good person think twice about stealing a child or causing harm. You are welcome to laugh and ridicule me all you want, now that you know this. But it will not stop _me_ from continuing to send kind thoughts out to blanket the world, in the hopes that somewhere they will make some small difference.

And then, after all my award-winning speeches are over, the echoes resound. Ghostly hands, a warm body lying behind me, indistinguishable French words in my ear. And I can close my eyes, but not to sleep. Not to dream, either, and that is the worst of punishments, for who sleeps but doesn't dream? And yet I find no nightly repose in these times—I shift each time as I am feeling sleep creeping upon me, reawaking my senses and shifting my reality. I do not want to sleep, in the same moment that I can feel I need to. Many nights have passed with fitful turning, and for no other reason than the fact that _he _haunts me to insomnia. My dreams seldom have him, in them I am released. But the time before the dreams set in is nightmarish. The time when I have been lying in bed some twenty minutes, with nothing for my mind to do but continuously circle around the same track of thoughts. And twenty minutes can turn to forty, to seventy, in a blink. Often I force myself not to think, only to count slowly from one to one-hundred and repeating that same set of numbers so as to bore my frenzied mind to sleep. For I am never more awake then when I have just lain down to rest. I can be exhausted and lie down to sleep, stay there for five minutes and get up again, wide-awake. It is a curse, this blessing.

It is a curse.

For it forces me to choke everything inside, since there is no one I would rather talk to. It forces me to continue to behave 'normally', when all I may wish to do is hurl the toaster through the door-window and onto my back patio. When all I want to do is weep, and yet I have no tears. There are sorrows so deep that tears cannot touch them. There are weights that cannot be lifted even when others offer a hand. It is not only stubbornness, it is fact. And the part of me that desperately doesn't want to be alone anymore and wants to yell and scream and pound on the walls until I am heard is silenced by the part of me that keeps it to myself. For there is only one person I want to hear me. And they are not around to listen.

: : :

A rare opportunity has him visiting, and he quietly closes the door as I ascend the staircase ahead of him, intending to take his bags to the guest bedroom. I can feel him watching me, his eyes likely training on the set of my shoulders, trying to judge the tension there. I am of no mind to turn around, right now. I have a task I must complete, and he will be a distraction. Perhaps half a year ago I would have immediately torn into him, but now—in what feels like a tattered mess of a rag clinging to a clothesline—I cannot. His presence is so rare, I cannot find it in myself to bring about a row.

And yet I knew it would come, but I still did not expect it to hurt this much. There are things about him I have forgotten. Little movements, small expressions that once seemed like glass to me but now play the reflection of a thousand different possibilities. Has it been so long? I cannot decide what I see. I cannot decide what he means his actions to mean. Everything feels disjointed, disconnected. I come downstairs and lift my head, forcing a smile for the situation's sake. It feels wrong and hollow, but I hold my chin up and continue on despite that. What else am I to do?

"What would you like for dinner?" Even my speech is polite and stiff.

I loathe it.

: : :

The evening passes without much event. We order something from a place nearby, for he is too tired from traveling to cook and I dare not set foot in the kitchen lest it burn to the ground in a preemptive blow to prevent me from creating any unspeakables out of its depths.

After a glib and awkward dinner, as the plates are put away, I feel an aching tug against my throat. I know he is looking at me the same—he does not notice the same things he would have noticed, had he been here for the past half-year. Are we really so far apart? He approaches me from behind as I scrub a plastic cup and I start, badly, as I feel the ghost of a hand on my hip. I turn and he watches me carefully. I look away and push past him. Perhaps it is not like me to be so avoidant, but I cannot stand what this has become. Have the months made me meek? I think not—I simply do not want to be touched. How ironic is it, that when he is here I want him nowhere near me?

"Arthur—" He calls after me but I continue up to my bedroom, absently locking the door behind me. I am not wanting to discuss this. Can he not leave well enough alone? I have survived without him—an entire _lifetime _ without him, before we met—I can surely survive this visit. It is not denial, it is not my refusal of what we have, it is just—if I am no longer worthy, can he at least only give me this illusion that all is right? In my heart I know it is a lie, but I can convince myself it is not and if he does not give me any indication to change why should I? If it is awkward, it is my fault, I know. Will he leave me for being so difficult? How can he leave when he's already left—when he's already been gone so long I don't even remember what happiness was like. Real happiness, not these bursts of low and high moods I have, from repressing so much that the wrong emotions emerge at the oddest times. Real happiness, like it was when he could see through my actions and I through his and we fought more than we kissed but it didn't matter because we were _alive _and _living _that with each other, day to day. I do not miss it, do not make the mistake of assuming so. But what I have now is what I must cherish and protect, because yesterday is as good as dirt when it is over one-hundred-fifty yesterdays away. And living with a limp never killed anyone, so long as they didn't let the limp bury them.

My eyes feel sore and full. I did not sleep last night, for knowledge of his arrival today.

And the clock strikes nine.

: : :

It is hard to find something to react to, when you can feel nothing. I think there was a time I could. A time when I would argue with him over nothing, just to grin and sneer and swat and punch and argue. I could remember those days, if I tried, I think. Or are they perhaps too far gone? Even now I look back and that person seems like a stranger. Who was I? Why did I act like that? I am always so calm and rational, why did I allow him to rile me up that badly? Was I that insecure? Or did I just enjoy having an excuse to blow up at someone with it being taken in good humor?

What was his name, again? I think I've almost forgotten.

: : :

The second day of his visit starts early. I still cannot sleep—hours lying awake, sensing his shadow pause at my door like a phantom, before footsteps announce he has moved on. He gave me space. Wasn't it always that I had to keep pushing him away until he realized I didn't _want_ more space? But does it matter, now? For what was it all that it could just… fade away.

I eventually emerge. It still feels like a mist, coming down the stairs to quiet noises in the kitchen. He turns around from his frying pan of eggs as I enter, a bright smile on his face as though he senses nothing is wrong.

"Ah, _bon matin~_!" I wonder how fake it is, and how badly my skills at reading his real smiles from the fake ones have become. I sit, not looking up after an initial nod of acknowledgement. The morning feels strangely heavy as he slowly deflates. Out of the corner of my eye I could notice this, and do, but dismiss it. What does it matter? A moment later I remember myself, and rise from my chair to set up the electric kettle for tea. I've barely set my hand upon it when there is another upon mine. I look up, and he is smiling at me strangely. Quietly, unsurely, cautiously—strangely. I blink at him, and move my gaze back to the kettle, trying to pull it from under his grasp. His hand tightens and I tense a little, peering back up at him just as my vision is blanketed by his shirt.

I don't move as the kettle is crushed between us, one of his arms going around my waist as the other tenderly palms the back of my head, his own moving to tuck his chin over the edge of my shoulder.

"_Petit lapin—" _The words are familiar, enough that they cause me to freeze up even more. I didn't think it possible, but at least he notices this, close as we are. I can't help but think my eyes are locked to the molding on the upper left side of the door. The paint is peeling. Why is he pulling me closer? I should really repaint that. Why is he softly combing his fingers through my hair? I can't imagine how I didn't notice the peeling had gotten that bad. Why is he leaning close to—

"_Je t'aime_." My eyes fall shut at that painful whisper. Not the least pained on his part—I'm sure I would be imagining any such emotion—but it's like a stab to my heart, hearing those words again after so many times where they've almost become meaningless. They're like a charm we say at the end of each letter—mine much more rare than his, of course. Because even if it's true, why does he need to proclaim it all the time? Why does it matter?

Why can't I just focus on the fact I'm obviously horrible at home maintenance—?

"_Desoleé." _His voice is even quieter, here, I think, interrupting my wandering thoughts. The kettle starts to shake, and I have to wonder why. Surely I'm not trembling. That arm around my waist pulls tighter, pressing our shoulders together and he ducks his nose against my ear and I can't help but notice his lips move a breath away from my skin as though stuttering, but no sound follows those movements until a few moments later. "I am sorry. I did not mean for this to—_Arthur, mon cher,_ why will you not even look at me?" I blink, not quite realizing I have been doing so. The kettle's spout presses against his stomach as I look off towards the tiled floor.

"I'm not—" I try to reason with him, but am interrupted as he abruptly pulls back, glaring at me and I feel pinned in place. Something in my chest hurts at those eyes.

"Do not lie to me!" I blink at the chiding tone, but something in his gaze shudders and widens and his next words are soft, fingers brushing sweetly against my cheek. "_Arthur_, how long have you been so depressed?" I can only blink at him again, opening my mouth to respond before finding I don't really have anything to respond _with_. I look away, but those fingers angle my face back to him. Even despite that, I keep my eyes firmly on the ground. There is a tender pressure in his tone as he almost begs. "_How long?"_

"I dunno…" I find myself muttering, the words slurring into a horrible excuse for slang. I can't look at him. Why, when only last night, I could—couldn't I? Hadn't I looked at him? I had, right? I peer up from under my fringe, but he catches me when he brushes them out of my face and I withdraw, bringing a hand up to ward off those fingers. "I'm not…" I'm looking at him now, and an eyebrow quirks as I see the beginnings of a smile and feel my own face contort in a suspicious frown. Whenever he smiles, it's never good.

"Oh~?" That tone is arch, and the grin is growing on his face as he leans in, leering and I narrow my eyes, leaning back and slowly bringing the kettle in my hands up a little, in case it would serve a better purpose as a weapon. "Then it is just old age that has withered your wit and reduced you to naught but a mute apparition?" I glare at him, for that, turning and shoving the spout-end of the kettle into his gut. He backs off with an overly-dramatic 'oof' and holds his stomach as though in pain, but the grin on his face doesn't really waver and so I scoff and head over to the sink, keeping half-an-eye on him in the back of my mind. I feel rankled, and my tone is crisp.

"I do not think _you_ are one to be talking of old age." I sense movement behind me and slip to the side just as he glides over to the spot where I'd been, eying him warily with my kettle full of tap water. He recovers magnificently, of course, smoothly raising a finger with that annoying grin lighting up his features, again.

"Ah, but you are in the beginning stages, _mon cher_, and so are not aware of it yet, methinks~" I give him a Look for using that word, then think of something and smirk to myself as I take the long way around to the electric plate—that is, around the table instead of past the sink, which he is blocking.

"And who's the one using old words like 'methinks', here? Sounds like dementia to _me_." He gives a mock-gasp, covering his mouth to 'improve the theatrics' and I roll my eyes, shoving him out of the way with my hip when he tries to get between me and the counter, once again. He tumbles onto the floor and whines, so I cast him another Look as I set the electric kettle atop its plate and start it.

"You should not be so rough with me, _rosbif_!" He scrambles towards me as I'm distracted, causing me to squawk in surprise as he wraps himself around one of my legs. "I could _break_! I am _fragile_!" I glare down at his falsely-tearstricken face and sneer, kicking my foot to try and get him _off!_

"You are not! And _stop_ that—"—by which, of course, I meant trying to 'subtly' cop a feel, resulting in me smacking his northerly-wandering hands away from my self—"_Y-You_ are—!" He cuts me off with a darker grin, this time, nothing more, as his fingers begin their northward trail once again.

"Alluring?" A fingertip traces up over my covered fly and I squirm, feeling my cheeks go red as I try to _get away_.

"H-Hey—!"

"Irresistible?" A little more teeth to the grin, this time, and he catches my hands at the wrists, leaning to lick an obscene trail of moisture over the very same path his finger just traveled. My eyes go wide, nose beginning to burn with a blush as I quickly try to kick him off.

"N-No! Get _off_ me, you sodding—" He just laughs, lunging in quickly enough to that sensitive spot that I freeze and wince, expecting impact but when there is none I squint open my eyes a little and the flush encompasses my ears and neck, wholly. He leers up at me, teeth locked around the zipper as he pulls it down and I try to buck away but he has me by the wrists so I can't go anywhere and— "A-Aaahn…"

"Or am I just _yours_, _mon amor_?" That comment is smugly murmured against the too-thin fabric of my boxers and I glare at him half-heartedly (it's rather hard to do so seriously when every goddamn breath he exhales sends another wave of heat onto… _t-that_ _area_). He seems content not to go any farther for the moment, though, so after another to collect myself I snap back at him, annoyed and offended he would stoop to this level.

"Yes, yes, _fine_, now stop this nonsense and let me—" There is a spark in his gaze that I haven't seen before, not in a long time and for an instant—just an instant, damn you—I feel something familiar.

"_Oh_ no, Arthur, I am not letting you get away that easily, especially after giving me such a cold shoulder last night." His eyes narrow and I blink, then frown, then open my mouth to argue but he is up before I can, cutting off my air and I choke at the suddenness of it, feeling my spine press into the counter as he kisses me.

Heaven help me, for I am lost to those adoring hands cupping my cheeks, that familiar scent wrapping around me like a memory from another life, and I cannot push him away—not when he is like this. So instead I grab his shirt and pull him closer so he _must_ not be able to breathe as I can't and it feels like warmth, and it feels like comfort and it feels like—for the first time in a _very_ long time—I am finally seeing him, again. I slide a hand down during the kiss to try and zip my fly back up but his own hand stops me and I pull away, perplexed, but he is grinning that same old infuriating grin at me, leaning in to rest our foreheads together.

"Leave it undone, _oui~?_ It suits you so much better—" I go red from both anger and mortification, at that, but he just laughs and dodges away from my swinging arm. So I give chase, darting around furniture and doors and walls to try and catch him, a growl in my throat and a smile I will not give into carrying my soul a little higher.

Because it was just this, wasn't it? It was just this insanity I was missing.

"Hey, Francis!" And he makes the mistake of pausing at his actual name—it feels unused and cold in my mouth, but I take advantage and full-on tackle him and bear him to the floor, grinning as he groans beneath my full weight on him, glaring up at me.

"_Arthur_, that is _not—" _Always loving to keep him off-balance, I put a finger to his lips and he stops, just shocked enough at the action alone that it gives me an opening and I lean down as though to kiss him, but—

"本当に、愛している。" And he just freezes, and I smugly wonder to myself if he's been keeping up with his Japanese, so I sneer at his wide-eyed face, rubbing it in even more. "Or should I say 'ich liebe dich'~?" And his eyes narrow at that one, arms shooting up around my neck to drag me down as he growls against my smirking mouth.

"You—are—_infuriatingly _arrogant_, mon lapin!" _I just laugh in his face at that, not really minding when he presses our lips together again and so I let the laughter fall to a chuckle, pulling back while I still can—and even then, just enough to get the last word in.

"Just the way you like it, _frog_._"_

: : :

_Ah, now that feels resolved. (Hurrah~!)_

_Reviews would be nice, if you have the time. :3 Thanks for reading, though! -Fox_


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